Error Of Thy Ways
by Spiritus Scriptor
Summary: Aziraphale is called up to Heaven to stand trial for his actions during the Almost-Apocalypse. As punishment, he pleads to be made mortal and goes on to live a normal human life. But all human lives must come to an end, and then it's up to Crowley to pick up the pieces.
1. The Angel Falls

**Hello, folksies! I have returned with yet another plot bunny, written in one sitting on a sick day when I am trying to focus on not dying.**

 **Aziraphale and Crowley are probably massively OOC here. Ye be warned.**

* * *

He knew it had to happen. He had been called back. It had taken long enough, but he wished it could have been longer. Just one more lunch with Crowley, one more evening in the shop…

But Aziraphale found himself called back Above unexpectedly, and somehow he knew he was never going back. His fate would be decided at his trial.

The heavenly host was gathered, though not how one might expect the heavenly host to assemble. It was not an orderly courtroom scene. The space Aziraphale was led into was packed full like an overcrowded lecture hall. Several lesser angels, Virtues, and even a few seraphim spilled out from the seating area like disorderly teenagers. Every last one of them was peering down their nose at him.

And angels weren't supposed to judge.

In a lofty position sat the archangel Raguel. He was to act as judge and jury, but God himself was to play the role of executioner. Aziraphale swallowed hard. If he was lucky, he'd be demoted. If not…

Well, at least he'd get to see Crowley again. He had to admit, he missed the old devil.

A booming voice interrupted his thoughts—thoughts he shouldn't even be harboring, he noted dryly.

"Here is called the Principality Aziraphale, to face judgment for his misdeeds on Earth," Raguel thundered. "You have been called back having been accused of conspiring with a demon in order to avert the End of Days. What have you to say in your defense?"

Aziraphale fought back the urge to wipe his sweating palms on his trousers. He thought for a moment, but could not think of anything to say. The accusations were entirely true. He wished he had a lawyer, but lawyers did not enter the kingdom of Heaven.*

He cleared his throat and spoke at last. "It's true, Crowley and I worked together. But br—er—sir, it was not what it seemed. There is much good in humanity, and I wished to see it spared. I cannot speak on behalf of Crowley, as I don't know what his motives may have been. Pray hear me when I say there is still good left in him. He may have Fallen, but he is not truly evil."

"How dare you speak the demon's name!" bellowed Raguel, pointing an accusatory finger. "Do not think Heaven has turned a blind eye on you all this time, Aziraphale. We have been watching you. For centuries of humans' time you collaborated with and agent of Hell. We were not unaware of the understanding you called the Agreement—did you honestly believe your time spent on earth was a game to be played?"

The kindly book dealer quailed under this direct attack. "Raguel, please…I do not see the harm in it. He was merely doing his job, as was I. But when you have spent six millennia in a place where the people don't even live a century, you're bound to seek out the only other person who's been there as long as you have!"

"Time is irrelevant! You have grown too accustomed to playing human, learning their ways. You were supposed to be a guide to them, not lose yourself in their meaningless customs!"

It was true; he had gone native. They both had. His face was growing hot. Human customs were not meaningless. Some were quite beautiful. How could all these celestial beings not see that? _Because they've never been there,_ he reminded himself. He was becoming increasingly aware of the hateful stares of the assembled crowd. Heaven wasn't supposed to be like this. When had it changed?

It never had. _He_ changed.

With a dry throat, he spoke again. "Please," he tried. "I beg for mercy. If it pleases Him, I will gladly become mortal and live out my days on Earth, with no promise of salvation."

A Presence filled the space.

"Let it be so," said the voice of God.

* * *

Aziraphale woke up on the floor of his shop feeling terrible. Was this what _tired_ felt like? Every movement was a chore. He dragged himself to the sofa and sprawled, staring up at the ceiling. It took a few moments for the full weight of his decision to hit, but once it did, he could feel his heart racing. His heart had never raced, he had never needed to breathe, but now he found himself hyperventilating until he grew dizzy.

He sat up and let his head drop into his hands. After a moment the dizziness subsided, but a strange tightness remained in his chest. Was he having a heart attack? He knew it sometimes happened to humans under a lot of stress. And now he was human. His wings were gone, and their absence was uncomfortable.

For whatever reason, the loss of his wings hit him like a ton of bricks. Funny, how the most insignificant thing could affect you. What bothered him wasn't the fact that he would age, get sick, and die. It was his missing wings.

At long last, he stood up and went to the kitchen to make himself some cocoa. Perhaps that would settle his nerves. He got everything ready, and as the kettle was boiling, a thought struck him. He was going to die someday.

 _I will gladly become mortal and live out my days on Earth, with no hope of salvation._

What had he done? What would happen to him? Would he go to Hell? Or would he just cease to exist? The thought of this was too much to bear and he sank down into the lone chair at the table as tears streamed down his face.

He didn't notice that the water had finished boiling. It had boiled nearly to nothing before he got up, turned the kettle off, and wandered to the back room, picking up the telephone receiver and absentmindedly dialing a number.

"Crowley," he said shakily. "You'd better get over here."

* * *

Not ten minutes later, the screech of tires outside the shop woke Aziraphale from his stupor. Crowley was here. The bell over the door jingled as the demon strode in, looking around wildly.

"Jes—jeez, angel. What is it? You sounded like…" he said, seeing Aziraphale hunched over on the couch.

"I…got called back…" the angel spoke in a trembling tone. "Got tried for 'conspiring' with you or some such nonsense…asked them to make me mortal as punishment…didn't think they'd actually…"

"You're _mortal_?" questioned Crowley, coming to sit beside his shivering friend.

"Yeah…no hope of salvation either." The angel's lower lip trembled and his next question made him sound much younger than his six thousand years. "Crowley…what d'you think happens to you when you die?"

"I don't know," the demon mused. As far as he knew, you only went one way…or the other. With no hope of salvation, Aziraphale's fate would probably be the latter. "Seems like something we should discuss over a drink or two."

"Can't," Aziraphale sniffed. "Can't just sober up like that..." he snapped his fingers. "anymore."

"Humans drink too, you know. Alcohol was _their_ invention. You'll just have to watch it." He thought for a moment, and then scoffed. "Look at me, telling you to be responsible."

The angel gave him a watery smile. "Always knew there was some good in you. Tried to tell them."

Crowley took off his sunglasses, unblinking yellow eyes staring. "You…told the entire heavenly host…that a _demon_ had some good in him?" he cackled.

"Fallen angel," corrected Aziraphale. "Compared to the rest, you're no demon."

"Gee, thanks." he retorted. His demonic pride had been slighted. "Well, how about that drink then, eh?"

* * *

"S'like I was sayin'," slurred Aziraphale. "I _asked_ them t'do it. It's _my_ fault."

"What're you gonna do?" questioned the serpent. "Sss _done_ , Angel. Nothin' you can do now. So, just _live._ "

Aziraphale looked down sadly as he ran a finger along the rim of his glass. "How?"

"I dunno…be human. Write a book. Fall in love." Crowley snickered. "Have _kids_."

"I never!" cried the former angel, appalled at the mere suggestion.

* * *

After a while, he began to see the sense in Crowley's words…how _easy_ it was for humans to be taken in by evil, he realized. But with no hope of salvation, he had nothing to worry about anyway.

He began work on a book, and saw it published. In fact, he became a rather successful author, one of the best speculative fiction writers of his day. His became a household name. No one ever knew where his seemingly limitless inspiration came from. Except for himself. And Crowley.

It came as a shock to the demon when Aziraphale asked if he would be his best man. He hadn't known Aziraphale to have harbored romantic tendencies. He'd always figured that the former angel, like himself, had remained sexless.

"Angel, you know I can't set one foot inside a church." argued the demon defensively. In truth, he was jealous. He'd never been attracted to Aziraphale in that way, of course, but he still considered him to be his best friend and his brother, of sorts.** And now the person he had spent six thousand years roaming the earth with was being taken away from him. Oh, well. It was only natural, he supposed, Aziraphale being mortal and all.

"That won't be a problem, dear boy." his old friend assured him. "It's a courthouse affair. Strictly legal. I've been cut off from Upstairs, so I don't see why I should have any further association with them."

Crowley's mind reeled as he tried to process what Aziraphale had just said. It was so unlike him. He had expected him to be the type to fall on his knees and beg forgiveness and wallow in misery and guilt for the rest of his days. But he had just moved on. All business, no nonsense.

"Glad to see you're coming around," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Of course I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it."

Aziraphale pulled him into an awkward embrace—something he had never done before. "Thanks, Crowley."

"Don't mention it," Crowley muttered, wrangling himself out of his grip and turning to leave. "Oh, and Angel?"

"Yes?"

"I'm not wearing tartan."

* * *

Aziraphale's small family grew to include two children, Ezekiel and Martha. They had no clue that they were of angelic stock, and he meant never to tell them. However, he did have to keep a very close eye on dear old Uncle Anthony*** whenever he came to visit.

Crowley turned up on Christmas day with a suspiciously large and moving package. Aziraphale was busy making cocoa, so it was his wife who answered the door.

"Happy Christmas, Maeve." grinned Crowley. "I hope we're all well?"

"O…of course, Anthony. Never better." she stammered. After all these years, she couldn't believe this man was her husband's best friend. She could never put her finger on it, but something about him just didn't seem right.

"Oh, we should get these under the tree," he said, gesturing to the packages, the large moving one and two smaller.

Aziraphale emerged from the kitchen with a tray full of mugs. "Crowley!" he cried, putting the tray down on an end table. "Happy Christmas, old boy! Wasn't expecting you this early."

Crowley squirmed uncomfortably as he was wrapped into a hug. Aziraphale was becoming more and more human as time wore on. He was looking older these days, too.

"Erm…Ezra?" muttered Maeve, tweaking his sleeve.

"Yes?" asked the angel, who had since adopted the name of Ezra Fell again.

Maeve nodded to the side, and Aziraphale followed her out of the room. "That box is moving."

"What?"

"That box. Anthony brought it. It's _moving_."

Delighted squeals from both children interrupted their aside as Ezekiel and Martha uncovered the box and lifted out what looked like two black bear cubs.

"Thank you, Uncle Anthony!" they squealed.

Aziraphale pulled Crowley aside as Maeve disappeared into the kitchen muttering about the turkey.

"Do _not_ tell me you've gone and gotten them hellhounds," he hissed.

Crowley snorted. "Go—gosh, Az, do you think there's some pet shop Downstairs where you can just _buy_ those things? Dog was a special case. These are just newfoundlands."

Aziraphale sighed. Two newfoundlands. They'd outgrow the house.

"Crowley, you _bastard_." he said, swatting him on the arm.

He said nothing, merely giving a snaky smirk in reply.

* * *

The earthly remains of Ezra Fell were committed to the ground beside his wife Maeve on a cold and rainy day in March. He had lived rather longer than most humans in his mortal form, and he had decided at his last that his age at time of death would be one hundred and seven. Unusual, but still plausible. Crowley took care of the affairs.

The demon stood beside Aziraphale's children as they tossed the customary handfuls of earth atop their father's casket. Martha was trying her best to keep quiet, muffling her sobs in a handkerchief. Ezekiel stood beside her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders. They were the spitting image of their father, glossy blond curls and all.****

When the service was over, he turned to face the pair.

"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly, clearing his throat and rubbing the hair at the nape of his neck. "Azira… _Ezra_ was a good man...more than you know. He didn't deserve what he got."

They stared at him.

"Look, there's something you should know. Why don't you both come back to my flat for a while?"

Ezekiel stepped forward and fixed Crowley with a stare. There was something he already knew, and that was that there was something strange about his uncle. As he had grown older, he couldn't help but notice there was something off about him.

"All right," he said finally.

They followed Crowley to his ancient, yet somehow pristine, Bentley. For the first time since he'd owned it, the car didn't want to start. He floored the pedal until he thought he'd flooded the engine. He got out and looked under the hood. Nothing was wrong.

"You're out of petrol," noted Martha from inside the car.

Upon further inspection, he found that that was indeed the problem. His car had _never_ needed petrol.

Several hours later they arrived at his flat***** and Crowley ushered them into the lounge while he made coffee.

"Now," he said, sitting down at the table and placing steaming mugs before them. "I'm sure you've noticed some things about me over the years…namely that I've never aged."

"And you never take off your sunglasses," said Martha.

"Right. And that." Crowley sipped his coffee. "Well, I think the time has come to set everything straight." He took off his shades and gave them an unblinking stare. "First of which isss," he hissed, extending a forked tongue of impressive length. "I'm a demon."

The siblings turned a bit pale, but otherwise made no reaction, no question. It was clear as day he wasn't human. He'd show them his true form, but he was afraid if he did they'd never come near him again. And he kind of liked having them around.

Ezekiel recovered first. "What the hell does that have to do with Dad?" he asked.

"I'm getting there!" said Crowley. "Your father's real name was Aziraphale," he continued tersely, unprepared for the sudden wave of emotions saying that name would bring. "He was an angel. A Principality, if you know what that is." He cleared his throat and took a gulp of coffee to bolster his courage. "Anyway, he was the Guardian of the East gate. Of Eden. Here from the very start."

"Dad was an atheist," said Martha. "Hated religion. Said God was a…"

"Really?" Crowley cut her off. Aziraphale, an atheist? Hell must have doubly frozen over. "How do you explain your names, then? Old habits die hard, eh?"

"You're not really our uncle." said Ezekiel, who was slighted by his comment and trying to change the subject.

"Not by blood, no." Crowley affirmed. "But he and I may as well have been brothers. We've been through he…some shit together."

"You're a snake," Martha stated. "You're _the_ snake. From Eden."

"How _clever_ of you to have guessed," Crowley hissed, his voice growing terse and raspy. "Though I mussst say I prefer 'ssserpent,' if it's all the sssame to you." Then, just as quickly, he reverted back to his human voice. "Your father got in trouble with the big man Upstairs, after a few millennia of us knocking about together." The Agreement between himself and Aziraphale would take longer to explain than he wanted, so he cut to the chase. "We were enemies once, and then we got tired of having to chase each other around and stop whatever the other was doing. So we called it a draw. Settled on an Agreement, and worked together while canceling out each other's deeds at the same time. Nice and civil."

"Friendly rivals?" asked Ezekiel.

"Exactly." said Crowley. "We both went native, you might say. Didn't want to give up life on Earth. There were never any serious repercussions from my side, but your dad…well, he got called up and had to stand trial for conspiring with a demon. Instead of Falling, he asked them to make him mortal so that he could live out the rest of his days doing what he loved. I guess there was some agreement that he wouldn't be granted any sort of salvation, so now he's…"

"In hell?"

"No…I think he's just gone. Ceased to exist."

Martha sniffled and her brother pulled her into a hug. Crowley laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Probably not what you wanted to hear right now."

"No."

"Listen, we'd…probably better be going," said Ezekiel, hauling Martha up from the chair and handing her her coat. "And it's nothing personal, but I think it's best that we…keep our distance for a while, if it's alright with you."

Crowley nodded, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. Of course the children of an angel would want nothing to do with him. Then he remembered something.

"Wait!" he called after them. "There's something else. Something your father probably never showed you." Slowly, he peeled off his suit jacket and folded it over the back of a chair. Standing before them, arms at his sides, he unfurled his wings. Glossy cream feathers spanned the width of the room as his niece and nephew just stared.

"He had them too. The last time they were put to use, we saved the world.****** Together. No sides. No good, no evil. Just two old friends who didn't want to see it all end." he said slowly, suddenly very fascinated with the plush white carpet. Then he looked up. "I'm afraid the world will go to shit without him."

* * *

Crowley sat staring at the blank television screen that evening, alone in his flat with only his plants and a glass of wine for company. An estranged niece and nephew,******* a car that suddenly needed petrol, and the unshakable feeling that something was very wrong, and would never be made right. He sipped his wine. Was the world coming to an end all over again?

No. It wasn't.

Just _his_ world.

* * *

*Save for one fellow by the name of Lincoln.

**Not that he would ever tell him.

***Who was not, in fact, old, and whose encounters with the children included teaching them crude rhymes and devious practical jokes. They loved him.

****Their looks garnered a lot of attention from the opposite sex. Crowley had recently learned that Ezekiel was engaged to an artist. She was quite taken by his classical beauty, and not much else. Crowley henceforth decided that his nephew must either be desperate or an idiot. Quite possibly both.

*****After calling several service stations and finally finding one who was willing to bring a can of petrol to a rural cemetery, strange questions notwithstanding.

******With the help of a certain young antichrist.

*******Granted, that was mostly his fault.

* * *

 **Ah, the things I think of when my brain isn't functioning properly. Aren't they great?**

 **I was thinking I should expand this and turn it into a multi-chapter. Let me know what you think!**


	2. The Demon Awakens

**I decided to make this a more-than-oneshot. Huzzah!**

* * *

Crowley was setting things in order. His rent would be paid, business connections maintained, down to the last miniscule detail. He was planning on going to sleep for a long time. Perhaps forever.

Martha and Ezekiel had left him pretty well alone since his reveal. They had dropped by only once about a month later in a much different frame of mind. They interrogated him, demanding to get a better look at his eyes and wings to make certain they weren't just contact lenses and clever body modifications.* He assured them that they were in fact quite real, going so far as to usher Ezekiel into another room where he removed his shirt and let the overly-curious son of an angel probe at the sinewy muscles connecting the wings to his flesh at the shoulder blades. Ezekiel, to be sure, was none too gentle in his examination. Crowley would never admit, not even to himself, how much this hurt and humiliated him.

 _Do you see what your kid is doing to me, Angel? Are you happy?_

He was sure if Aziraphale were there to witness it, he would have read his son the riot act.

Crowley went to sleep on a pleasant afternoon in late May. He would not wake up for seventy-seven years.

* * *

It was raining when he woke up, but that wasn't what woke him. It was the noise coming from outside. He opened his eyes to find everything in the room covered in decades' worth of dust, the paint peeling from the walls from over seven decades of summers and winters during which time the flat's temperature control had been unused.

The first thought that struck him was that he should put a stop to the noise. The second was that he desperately needed the loo.

The water had been turned off, and had been off for quite some time, by the looks of things. He must not have paid the bill this far in advance. He'd have to call the landlord today.

The window was warped, but when Crowley finally jarred it open with a horrendous creak and poked his head out, he thought for a minute that he'd slept straight through the Apocalypse. The real one this time. The sky was gray, as was typical of London this time of year**. In his view were piles of rubble, concrete, and twisted bits of metal. And a bulldozer. That explained the noise. The building was being razed.

"Oi! You!" shouted a voice. In the street below, a man in a hardhat with a clipboard was waving at him. "Get out of there! We were about to…"

"All right!" bellowed Crowley. They were about to level the building. What had happened in the time since he'd been asleep? Mayfair was one of the most fashionable and wealthy London boroughs, and his flat was no exception. Why was it being torn down as though it were a tenement slum?

It occurred to him that the man must have thought he was a vagrant. He was dressed in pajama trousers and a t-shirt, which were absolutely filthy, dusty, and full of holes. Upon inspection of his closet, he found all his fine-tailored suits to be moldy and moth-eaten. Sighing, he wished himself clean and clothed in an impeccable black number and briefly lamented the loss of certain irreplaceable articles—his watch; battery long dead and corroded through the case, and his snakeskin shoes. Something had nested in them. He did, however, find his gold ring and the tie pin Aziraphale had given him for Christmas in 1947. He held it in his fingers for a long moment before turning to the hazy mirror and threading it through the black tie he had magicked up. He looked like an undertaker. It seemed fitting.

Wandering out into the lounge, he didn't know what he'd expected to see. All the plants he'd so lovingly cared for were dead and withered. There was a hole in the ceiling where the rain had gotten in, the floor beneath it sagging dangerously. Stereo equipment ruined, as was the da Vinci.

All this he could withstand, but he nearly fell to his knees and cried when he went down to the parking garage and saw what had become of his beloved Bentley. Crowley was surprised it was still there at all, but to get it back in working order would be almost impossible. It was worse than it had been after the Apocalypse that wasn't. A rusted out heap of a carriage had collapsed onto deflated tires, crushing the spokes of the wheels beneath its weight. All the windows were broken, lights and mirrors smashed, and it was covered in graffiti, the crowning glory of which was a bright yellow phallus on the hood. If he could, he would have found and killed*** whoever had done it.

In his mailbox were posted crumbling and faded final notices of all kinds, including one for all tenants to vacate the premises by the end of February. The building had been condemned and would be demolished. How long ago had that been? How had his flat been overlooked? Hadn't someone gone through them all when the building closed? He could have been assumed dead, as he didn't breathe when he slept, nor did he have a pulse unless he wanted to. But if that was the case, he'd have expected to wake up in a morgue…or six feet under.

Deciding not to ponder it further, he put on a pair of shades, jammed his hands in his pockets and began walking. It was cold. He cloaked himself in a thick wool coat and kept going.

Rip van Crowley had officially reentered the world.

* * *

Crowley walked all the way to Soho. He stopped in front of a familiar shop on the corner. The cheery red brick had been whitewashed but was now flaking in places. A flickering neon atrocity stood in place of the charming old wood sign. The former proprietor, a Mr. A. Ziraphale, must have been turning in his grave.

The place was a dingy café now. Crowley gave a sidelong glance down the street, which seemed to be entirely comprised of dingy cafes, save one smoke shop and a pub, simply called 'the Haven'.

He went into the café. A familiar old bell clanged over the door. After all this time, it was still there. Crowley's throat tightened momentarily as he half expected a voice to greet him with a curt "We're closed."

Instead he was met with a dead-eyed stare from a woman in a ratty jumper who stood behind the counter. After a moment, she went back to staring at some tabloid laid out before her and picked at her nails. The place smelled like stale bacon and old tea.

Crowley sat down at a table near the window. There was a yellowing framed newspaper clipping with a grainy photo of a fire. _That_ fire. He drummed his fingers on the table and looked around. If old Zira could only see what had become of his beloved shop…Crowley could just _hear_ the lecture about what the mere smell of grease could do to precious volumes such as his.

"Can I get you anything, love?" asked a grating Manchester accent, startling him. The woman had finally grasped that someone might come into this establishment for something to eat.

"Coffee and scones," he replied, gazing out the window. Then, he thought of something. "Have you a paper?" he asked.

"Sure, love." she said, bringing over the tabloid rag she'd been reading along with a plate of drop scones that could have passed as construction material, and a cup of weak coffee with a sheen of oil on the surface.

The demon tried his best not to cringe. "Thanks," he said.

He picked at a scone and turned the pages. A date….he needed to find a date.

Aha. November tenth. Give or take.

His eyes widened.

Seventy -seven years later.

Go—Je—holy—

 _Hell_.

In his shock, he threw down some cash, hoping the currency was still…well, _current_ , and left.

"Well, I wonder where he's gone off to in such a hurry." the woman said to herself.

Crowley had gone off to see if he could find any of his old haunts. The mouthful of stale scone had left a bad aftertaste, and he wanted a decent meal after being asleep for over half a century.

After a fair bit of walking, he found one. He couldn't believe it. A chophouse he and Aziraphale had discovered back in aught-six was still in existence.

He went in and ordered a steak and a glass of port. As he ate, he mulled over where he was going to go from here. He was effectively homeless and didn't have much in the way of money on him, not that he really needed it. He decided he would seek out a nice neighborhood and see what he could find in terms of housing. He'd never been uprooted quite like this, and not knowing what was going to happen next bothered him more than he cared to admit. Even when times were particularly bad, Aziraphale had always been there to—

But Aziraphale was gone. It was just him now, and that was how it had to be.

He couldn't remember ever feeling more alone.

The hotel room was cheap and smelled of cigarettes and damp. Crowley would almost have preferred going back to his dilapidated flat if it had still been standing. Go-Someone only knew what the bed was probably infested with. Uncharacteristically, he decided sleep could wait.

He spent the night sitting at the rickety table magicking up endless bottles of wine and getting gloriously plastered.

In the morning, he set out to look for more permanent accommodations.

* * *

It took a few days, but he eventually found what he was looking for in Fulham, a fair distance further away than he would care to be since he didn't have a car anymore. The landlord seemed wary of the tall dark man in the black suit with an odd way of speaking****, but led him up a narrow flight of stairs to a split-level flat that was smaller than his old one, but in better condition than anything he'd seen thus far. He'd been scouring the London boroughs for places to let*****and found each one to be in only slightly more livable conditions than his old flat.

This place, though…very Bohemian, he thought. But it would do.

Crowley spent the day scouring and dusting and setting to rights anything he judged faulty or out of place******. When he deemed it acceptable, he sat in the middle of the bedroom floor and stared out the window. He could see the Thames from here, and he was sure that come summer—if he stayed that long—he'd be able to smell it, too. He sighed. He missed his old place. True, he couldn't really claim he'd lived there, really. But all the same, it had been spacious and tasteful…and hadn't smelled like patchouli.

It didn't take long before Crowley was in possession of a sleek black sports car. It wasn't the Bentley, but the salesman assured him that anybody who was everybody was driving one. Crowley knew he was a liar right off the bat, but he needn't worry. There was a special place in Hell for people like that. He didn't need to handle him himself.

He felt a strange sense of accomplishment. He was getting his life together. He didn't need anybody. And, it seemed, nobody needed him. They were bad enough on their own. He wondered if it were possible for him to get away with living like a normal human being. No one from Below had tried to contact him yet. Maybe they'd forgotten about their once-best field agent.

One of the first things he decided to do was take a drive. There was someone he wanted to visit.

* * *

The angel's grave was grown over with moss and dead ivy. It looked like it hadn't been tended to since the day he was put in the ground. Crowley gave a disgusted sniff and began clearing away the encroaching foliage. His finger scraped away the last of the moss, and there it was:

 _Ezra Fell_

 _Beloved husband and father_

 _May he find peace_

The world had taken him for granted, thought Crowley. And obviously no one had cared much for him after his death, either. A _demon_ had come to mourn him.

That truly was something.

* * *

For the first time in perhaps a century or more, Crowley ate at home that night. Or rather, he cooked and sat down at the table. He didn't so much eat as he did repeatedly stab the jacket potato with a fork. He considered it stress relief.

At long last, he picked up a lamb chop and bit into it. It had gone cold, but he didn't care, nor could he find the energy to will it warm again. As a demon, of course, he had never been meant to care much about anything but causing havoc and mayhem. This was different. He didn't care about anything, and yet he felt that he should. He needed a purpose.

* * *

*The thought had occurred to him to try out colored contact lenses once when they'd first been made widely available, but they only turned his eyes a sickly shade of green and were immensely uncomfortable.

**He wasn't actually sure what time of year it was, but it was typical of London anyhow.

***Not only that, but make them regret the day they were born while he was at it.

****Crowley had noted that everyone he'd spoken with thus far had a Manchester accent.

*****Though he had avoided Whitechapel on principle.

******This included, but was not limited to, all the draperies, the 1950s Formica countertops, the mantelpiece, the dining table, the purple wallpaper in the lounge, and the hideous leopard-print stair runner.

* * *

 **Stay tuned, next chapter we'll get to find out what happened to Aziraphale.**

 **As always, please review!**

 **~Ciao~**


	3. I'm Still Here

**Hi there! I decided to continue the story after all (well, always meant to, but y'know, life and other stuff). This isn't really a full chapter, more of a little vignette. The next one will be a full chapter, though. I try not to disappoint.**

* * *

A normal person would have taken time to grieve, but not Crowley. He was far too stubborn. Some might have mistaken that stubbornness for strength, but Aziraphale had always seen right through the poseur that was Crowley. He had his regrets, and that's all the angel would say about it if anybody had asked him.

Aziraphale stood on a pebble-filled beach in what was neither Heaven nor Hell, but an in-between place. As a mortal, he'd been given a soul, and a human soul can never die, not even if it were pierced by a thousand holy swords.

He'd ended up here, wherever _here_ was. It was a concept for which there were many names. He himself had settled on none of them. It occurred to the former angel that the place where he was was a form of torture itself. It wasn't the fires of hell, but it wasn't exactly pleasant either. It was perpetually cloudy, and it rained most of the time. If this was in fact a form of Purgatory, then Purgatory looked a great deal like a remote Scottish island. Aziraphale had found it peaceful at first, but as time wore on, he grew more and more lonely, desperate for someone to talk to. Some days he was content to curl up with a book, as he often had in life, and others he longed for someone, anyone, to talk to, until it nearly drove him insane.

He sighed, took one last glance across the waves, and trudged back to the cottage he'd taken up residence in. It was a far cry from his shop, but there were enough books to keep him happy. He tottered into the kitchen and made himself some cocoa. He needed to think. Crowley had just woken up, and it was clear to Aziraphale that he missed him, even if Crowley himself didn't realize it. Somehow he had to let the demon know that he was still alive and well, for all intents and purposes.

He had seen what his children had done to his dear old friend, and he was none too happy with them. They had passed on some time ago, that he knew, but he didn't know what had become of them. His Maeve, kind and gentle soul that she was, was Above without him. He had never told her that he had been an angel once, or his children. Crowley had taken care of that and made a fine mess of it. Aziraphale couldn't really blame his children, though. He tried to think of how he would have reacted if all his life, he thought himself entirely human and suddenly found out otherwise. Still, they could have handled it better.

He pitied the demon, doomed both from Heaven and to wander the earth until he was either recalled or the End of Days actually happened.

If he were still in Heaven's favor, he might have done something. But as it was, he was stuck here with the only things he had cared about for most of his time on earth…his books.

He only realized then how truly worthless they were.

* * *

 **Yay! Aziraphale isn't (completely) dead!**

 **This doesn't really add too much to the story, but review if you feel so inclined.**


End file.
